


Forced Perspective

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Pre-Series, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-06
Updated: 2007-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For eloise_bright’s hug-a-Winchester <a href="http://eloise-bright.livejournal.com/144536.html?thread=4725400#t4725400">challenge</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Forced Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> For eloise_bright’s hug-a-Winchester [challenge](http://eloise-bright.livejournal.com/144536.html?thread=4725400#t4725400).

*

It’s cold out, and with the wind chill factor exponentially so, but John’s still driving with his head out the goddamn window like a dog.

“He started it!” Dean shouts from the backseat, managing to sound as affronted as if John _hadn’t_ caught him crowing and romping in unholy glee in something _truly_ unholy not twenty minutes ago.

Dean’s irritation - no doubt brought on by a (not misplaced) sense of guilt spawned by John’s utter horror - is further tickled by Sammy’s complete inability to be dampened (metaphorically speaking only). Sam’s onto verse twelve of the “Oompa Loompa” song. Which sounds much like verses 1-11.

Goddamit. John _knew_ there’d be hell to pay for letting Sammy watch that film on nonstop repeat all winter, just _knew_ it. But whatever the hell the boys are covered in now - no matter how good natured Sammy is despite it - it sure as hell ain’t chocolate.

John holds his breath until his ears start ringing, then sticks his head out the window again.

The first thing he does as soon as he’s pulled the car up in front of their room is shove the car door open, before he even twists off the ignition. He swings his knees around so at least half of him is in direct access to fresh air before he turns an assessing gaze to the back seat. Dean’s looking mildly sullen, arms crossed and face like a failed beauty treatment; mud mask crackling over his face and plastering his hair to his forehead, hardened helmet-like over his crown. John’s pretty sure that changing Dean’s expression from a frown right now would open up a multitude of fissures in the mask. Above-the-neck seems the driest part of him, though; the rest of his clothes soaked a dark, unspeakable brown.

Sammy’s heels thud-thud, thud-thud as he bounces his legs against the seat, and his eyes bright in his equally-as-filthy face. John tamps down his scowl; at least the towels he’d set down on the seats before they’d climbed in are still in place, protecting his girl from the travesty that is currently their backsides.

John sighs. At least the motel they’re in is the kind with unlimited hot water. And at least the boys are still of an age that he can just throw them in the tub together, leave them to their devices not dissimilar to those which got them in this (literal) mess in the first place, with the addition of soap providing slightly more positive results. And he could probably just dunk them in with their clothes still on at first, at least; and John suddenly has an image of stirring the bathtub with a huge wooden spoon, like a boy-and-filth-and-teeshirt stew. At least Sammy’s got that particular river-of-chocolate urge out of his system, now.

John steps out of the car and straight into a puddle. He curses, shoes instantly soaked and dirty road water beginning the climb up the cuff of his jeans. An abandoned cigarette butt, filter end bloodied with lipstick, clings to the side of his boot like a shipwreck survivor. John lifts his eyes heavenward, making more promises than he could ever keep, and decides to just _let it go_.

He slams the door after him, steps gingerly forward and pulls open Sammy’s door.

Sam looks down at the murky-depthed, wheel-churned lake that the parking lot between the car and their room has become, and back up at John. “Ewww,” he says.

John blinks. “You’re kidding me, right?” he says, beyond reprimand or argument at this stage, far into damp and cold-toed bewilderment. “What, the consistency of it not thick enough for you?”

“Daddy,” Sammy says, the taps of his heels against the seat slowing to a pace of misery.

“C’mon, Sammy,” John says. It’s getting darker and colder outside, and he’s just about killing for a shower himself, now. “Just get out of the goddamn car.”

“I _can’t_.” Sam’s expression turns from one of self-satisfied delight into something with a whole lot more lip-trembling, and John realises at that moment that Sammy - or, more likely, _Dean_ \- has used the nameless brown goop to style Sammy’s hair much like that of an Oompa-Loompa’s. The result is an alarmingly effective yank on John’s heartstrings, so when Sammy hunkers his head down and holds his arms out, John leans over with barely even a pause.

It stinks worse, this close. The dried muck is flakey against the side of John’s face, rubbing away from Sammy’s skin, but the clothes are still damp and rank. John grimaces.

“Just… hold on there,” he grits out. “You hold on to my neck, but I ain’t holding you.” His jacket sleeves have almost dried off from when he had to haul them out of the mess, but there’s no use getting things even filthier than they already are, especially if he’s gonna have to carry all their gear in himself. Because there’s no way that Dean’s going anywhere but straight in the tub.

Sammy’s arms tighten around his neck and John tenses his muscles, leans back out of the car. Always obliging, Sammy dangles from John’s neck lifelessly, like some kind of grotesque voodoo jewellery. Sam’s tone is unforgivably good-natured as he hums his Oompa-Loompa theme song right into John’s ear.

John reels at the weird, dead weight. There was a time when it’d be only a minute shift of balance to haul Sammy along with him. Then again, there was a time when Sammy’s arms didn’t even have the strength to hold himself up.

John’s managed to turn away from the car when he stumbles suddenly forward, a sudden weight landing and hanging from his back and he chokes briefly as Dean’s grubby hands grab and yank at his shirt, struggling to get a grip where he’s launched himself onto John’s back. John plants his feet and waits for Dean to get a firm hold, lets his body sway until he finds his balance again.

Arms outstretched, he begins to stagger toward the room. He feels like Godzilla, like Kong, slushy puddles like ankle-deep oceans, grappling hooks pulling on his shoulders and neck. He exaggerates his stride, lumbers with more sway and lets out a low moan that ends in a grumble. Then winces as Sammy shrieks, ridiculously pitched, directly into John’s ear.

Just as long as Sammy doesn’t start kicking, they’ll probably make it to the bathtub without further fouling.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/54359.html


End file.
